


Higgs Boson Blues

by poisonemma



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Established Relationship, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-12 10:58:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 18,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4476785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonemma/pseuds/poisonemma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Although Laura wasn’t sure why, she knew that Carmilla was strung out to breaking point. She also knew very well the sort of violence the other girl was capable of, and she could only hope, desperately, blindly, that some semblance of rationality was still clinging on, keeping Carmilla together.</p><p>The gun clasped tightly in Carmilla’s right hand wasn’t making things any easier, though.</p><p>T/W for violence and hints at suicide</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Being in love with an ex-gang member and murderer isn't easy for Laura, especially when Carmilla's mother is in charge of said criminal organisation and a life of crime and killing is all Carmilla has ever known. She can't hide from her family for ever; when crime comes calling Carmilla will always answer, and Laura will always pick up the pieces. Title taken from the Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds song of the same name.
> 
> Story will follow a non-linear format (i.e. chapters are not in order, à la Memento), so pay attention to the dates at the beginning of each chapter.

_ 12 October  _

 

“Carm, please…” Laura whispered. She had her eyes tightly closed, was afraid to open them, her nose scrunching up slightly with the effort of feigning blindness. 

Carmilla breathed a terse “shut up” in response, the scent of cigarette smoke and stale whisky curling in Laura’s face, warm wisps crushing at Laura’s throat like strangling fingers, choking her. 

Laura coughed. She’s uncomfortable, propped with her back pressed hard against the worn kitchen table, a beaten chair tilted up on two legs by her elbow. Carmilla’s eyes are on hers, ploring with shards of emerald green for swirling pools of honey, and she can see them on her even through her tightly lidded own.

She shifts her weight ever so slightly, hard wood pressing even further into the skin of her back, and the chair teeters on its legs before toppling, crashing to the floor with a clatter that pierces the silence so suddenly Laura’s eardrums ache. Carmilla jolts with an audible intake of breath and Laura doesn’t remember when or how her eyes opened but suddenly Carmilla’s face is all that’s there, clouding her vision. 

And although Laura wasn’t sure why, she knew that Carmilla was strung out to breaking point. She also knew very well the sort of violence the other girl was capable of, and she could only hope, desperately, blindly, that some semblance of rationality was still clinging on, keeping Carmilla together. 

The gun clasped tightly in Carmilla’s right hand wasn’t making things any easier, though. 

She closed her eyes again, blocking gunmetal and smudged eyeliner and tousled black hair from her vision. 

Carmilla was cracking. Shards crumbling, not quite there. She had been gone for weeks, the shell of a girl even less so now upon her return. Laura itched to fix, had done since she first met the girl all those years ago in their cramped dorm room, but Carmilla was so fragmented, so torn, pieces scattered far and wide and Laura couldn’t find, couldn’t _carry_ all of them. 

“Carm,” she repeated, hypocorism tumbling from her mouth like an old friend, though Laura barely recognised the girl in front of her any more. 

She opened her eyes, looking past the gun at the other girl’s face, half hidden in shadow, eyes glittering with tears, jaw clenched tightly. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Carmilla hissed, wide eyes darting from Laura’s face to the weapon enclosed in her hand and back again. Laura sometimes wondered why Will called his sister Kitty and, now more than ever, Laura can see the catlike resemblance. 

She didn’t move, eyes still searching Carmilla’s. 

“Don’t look at me!” the brunette suddenly shrieked, driving the butt of the pistol hard into Laura’s forehead, forcing her head back awkwardly, neck protesting at the angle. The table legs slide back a few inches on the cold linoleum floor; Laura stumbles and rightens. She raises a hand to her forehead, fingers brushing at the indentation in her skin left by the barrel, she’ll most likely bruise, trying to think of something to do, some way to prise the weapon from Carmilla’s grasp, some way to make this end, but her mind kept catching on the details. The front door had been wide open when she returned home, but Carmilla wasn’t wearing her shoes, her worn leather boots kicked off next to the stairs, her jacket crumpled on the floor in the hallway; the brunette hadn’t just arrived. She had been standing in the kitchen, in the dark, staring out at the window at nothing at all. The gun had been in her hand, loaded, safety off, as though she was waiting for something. A Beretta M9. It wasn’t Carmilla’s own SIG Sauer P226. And although Laura couldn’t really tell one pistol from another, she definitely didn’t recognise this one; she wondered where she had gotten it, or who gave it to her, and why. 

“Carmilla,” full name this time “please, tell me what happened,” Laura reasoned, her voice unnaturally calm and unwavering considering the presence of the gun in her face. 

Carmilla silently shook her head, which Laura did not allow herself to see. After a long pause, where Carmilla does her best to fix her gaze on her bare feet and Laura’s Converse-enclosed ones, Laura tries to continue. 

“Carm-” 

“Stop.” 

“I can help you.” 

“Shut up.” Carmilla’s voice was rising with desperation, her eyes wide and angry and searching, but Laura couldn’t couldn’t just stand there and wait for the girl to do something rash. Not again, not any longer. She had to at least try to get through to her. Again. 

“I want to help you, Carm-” 

“Shut up.” 

“Carmilla, please!” 

Laura had scarcely finished her final plea when Carmilla screamed at her wordlessly and raised her arm, her eyes wild and angry and scared, and Laura scrunched her eyes tightly, awaiting the sickening crunch of metal on jawbone as Carmilla savagely brought down the pistol across her mouth, but it never came. 

Laura could taste iron in her mouth, could feel a bead of blood perched atop her bottom lip from where she’d bitten down on it in anticipation of the blow. 

Eyes opened. 

Carmilla had whirled away, was crying audibly, screaming through gritted teeth at herself, both hands up at her face. Stunned, Laura felt her knees buckle from under her, crumpling to the floor and knocking the table aside with her hip on her descent. A spatter of blood jerked from her torn lip, sliding down her chin to pool on the collar of her shirt. It wouldn’t be the first item of bloodstained clothing that Laura would have to chuck. 

Carmilla’s crying had dissolved into a messy sniffle and shaky breaths, and Laura raised herself up on her hands, looking over in terror at her girlfriend, though the term, so scarcely used now, felt alien to her. The gun glittered blackly, a dimly illuminated silhouette in the shoddy light. 

Laura coughed quietly and, seemingly provoked, Carmilla turned back to her, filling the space between them in two strides, her bare feet silent, and held the gun up again, aimed down at the centre of Laura’s face. Laura’s eyes glazed over, the barrel hypnotising her, Carmilla’s pained face blurring into the background. She was holding her breath. Waiting. 

Carmilla stopped, trembled, then bit her lip and let a sob escape her mouth again. She staggered backwards two steps, the soles of her feet dragging against the linoleum, before colliding with the wall, sliding down it in a broken heap. 

Laura was shaking, close to tears, terrified. The slow drying of blood on her chin ticked away the agonising seconds. 

Carmilla stared at her for a second from her spot on the floor across the room, then dropped her gaze to the pistol that rested in her lap. With a swift, jerking movement she released the gun’s magazine with the air of a pro and sent it spinning across the floor towards the door, away from the two of them. 

Laura let out an audible sigh of relief. 

Carmilla quirks an eyebrow, then laughs. It's a fragmented giggle, followed by a harsh peal of hysteria, and then she’s raising the unloaded gun slowly, placing it squarely against her temple. 

“I don’t think you can help me out this time, Laura,” she murmured sedately. 

Laura’s heart stopped when she noticed that the pistol’s hammer was cocked. 

_ She had already chambered a round.  _

As Carmilla lowered her finger to the trigger, Laura dove across the floor desperately, one arm swiping wildly for the gun. 

With a deafening report, the firearm discharged. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, chapters are non-linear, so you'll have to wait and see what happens ;)

_Six months earlier_  
_8 April_

It was a cool April night when Carmilla sought the refuge of the shadows, ducking out from beneath the sickly yellow glare of the street lights. A smouldering cigarette held between her lips, she reached with both hands and raised the collar of her knee-length, black wool trench coat to shield her neck from the cold breeze, scarred knuckles brushing against her sharp jaw line. She wrapped her left arm around her waist, clutching at herself for warmth, and took another drag from the cigarette.

She blinked slowly, languidly, and stared across the street at the nightclub, still deciding whether or not she wanted to go in. Her eyes lingered on the garish sign; ‘The Box’ was scrawled across the night in thick, traditional type.

It was a difficult decision to make, more difficult than it should have been.

It was April, and her third year in New York. She had bought an inconspicuous piece of property with her substantial savings in blood money and moved in with Laura. They had been free, for a while, from the clutches of Carmilla’s mother, who had more pressing issues to deal with than the whereabouts of her daughter, and for more than a year after, Carmilla had succumbed to severe manic depression.

Laura, sweet, beautiful Laura, had dutifully stayed by her side throughout the entire experience, matching her unusual and erratic sleeping patterns, weathering her nearly bipolar mood swings, from rage to irritability to agitation to anxiety, her infuriating lethargy, indecisiveness, pessimism and indifference. For a year, Carmilla had felt persistently useless, a complete failure, and for a full year, Laura had tried her very best to make it known how much she loved her.

In the end, the brunette wasn’t sure it amounted to much. Though she had gotten back up on her feet, and though her physical wounds had finally healed, she had an awful time coping with her new life. She didn’t know what to do with herself anymore, couldn’t think of anything that she wanted to do, couldn’t think of anything she could do, besides from killing a man in a single shot. Laura had moved on, happy that Carmilla was no longer running off assassinating strange people across the globe at the whim of her mother and her network. She had finally gotten a job at a local paper, was pursuing her dream of being a journalist, while Carmilla remained rooted to the spot, chain smoking and idling away the substantial amount of money earned during her macabre past.

Assassination was all she had, the only thing she knew how to do, and damn was she good at it. Laura had her job and colleagues who wanted to drink in bars with her once a shift was over, and all Carmilla had was memories of blood and screams and the echo of gunfire, and a seven-figure strong bank account.

And now, here she is, standing in the darkened street, about to walk right back into that past and embrace it once again.

She hadn’t been able to move forward into a new life, as much as Laura had willed her to, and now it seemed like her only option was to revert back to what was so familiar. Embers scattered in the dark as she tossed her cigarette to the curb, and stepped off into the street. She could hear the bass throbbing from outside the building as she approached, barely acknowledging the huge line of scantily clad women and smartly dressed men curling around the block as she made a beeline for the door. She didn’t even look at the bouncer, not that she had to; he saw her approaching and opened the heavy door for her without a word. Being a Karnstein always had its perks. As the door closed behind her, shutting out the cold air, she was suddenly awash with heat and smoke, green eyes narrowing against the flash of brilliant light, deafening music drowning out her thoughts.

There was a coat check, but she kept her jacket on. She wasn’t really dressed properly for this sort of venue; rather she was dressed too conservatively. She knew where to go, remembered from all those years ago where he liked to sit, assuming that his preferences hadn’t changed in the three years since she saw him last. She heard that he owned the place now, snapping it up from it’s previous owner, the perfect place to hold his cover. She hardly looked at anyone else as she passed through the centre of the packed dance floor, slipping gracefully between nearly nude women bathed in red light and their inebriated partners, passing unscathed through the orgiastic crowd.

She caught sight of her target up ahead, was relieved that she didn’t have to spend any time looking for him. He kept disappearing and reappearing as people passed back and forth in front of her, but she could tell he was quite engaged in a conversation with the others sitting with him at the table, three men and a single woman. He was stooped low, taking a shot from a glass, before dropping it to the table with a boyish laugh that hadn’t changed since they were both in diapers. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. He leaned across the table to collect another shot, hesitated before drinking it while he spoke to the heavily tattooed man beside him.

No one at the table noticed her as she walked up behind him, but four pairs of eyes rose as she placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned in gently, plucking the shot glass from his fingers and swallowing back the bitter alcohol with all the grace and ease of a pro, before handing the empty glass back to him.

“Your shitty taste in vodka clearly hasn’t changed, Willy-boy.” He twisted in his seat, his smile broad on his youthful face. “Kitty!” He exclaimed, though she could hardly make out what he was saying for all the noise. “I’m so glad you decided to come!”

She smiled at him, a comfortable, genuine smile. “It’s good to be back,” she told him, before pulling him into a hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like boring ppl come say hello on tumblr - ohdaytona.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm super psyched people are actually reading this, so have another chapter (albeit a short one). I'm aware this is probably moving slowly, but bear with me!

_Two months later_  
_2 June_

It had long gone three a.m. when Laura quietly made her way down the stairs, bare feet softly padding atop the carpeted steps.

She could hear the quiet murmur of the television from their bedroom, the now-visible glow from the screen sending a scattering play of shadows across the wall of the hallway as she descended.

She wasn’t surprised that Carmilla wasn’t asleep; she didn’t know when or even if the girl ever slept, and she’d long since grown accustomed to the bloodshot eyes and tired face that struggled to meet her own. She couldn’t remember the last time Carmilla had even slept in the same bed; the brunette’s arms looped around her waist and her warm body pressed flush against Laura’s back as they slumbered a mere distant memory.

She made her way silently past the room after a pause and into the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of water from the refrigerator before retracing her steps and sitting down on the couch beside the brunette, drawing both legs up onto the cushions beneath her.

Carmilla didn’t react when Laura sat down but glanced, startled, almost, over at her hands as she cracked open the seal on the bottle of water. Her eyes slid indifferently back to the television, and she said nothing. She was hunched over, sitting on the edge of the couch with both elbows resting on her knees, one hand propping up her chin, the other extended over the coffee table. Between her fingers was a smouldering cigarette; from the length of the ash, Laura could tell she had all but forgotten about it. She tried to ignore how thin Carmilla looked, how the chain smoking and the sleepless nights had taken their toll on her body.

Laura leaned over quickly, plucking the abandoned cigarette from Carmilla’s compliant fingers and flicked the head of ash into an ashtray that was already laden with crushed butts.

She doesn’t remember when she stopped caring about Carmilla smoking, let alone doing it in the house. The smell of smoke and tobacco tainted lips was part of her now.

Laura took the final drag from the cigarette and extinguished it, holding the smoke before exhaling slowly, deliberately, and raised her own eyes to the television.

She could tell Carmilla wasn’t really interested in the film showing from the stoic expression on her face, but she kept watching, dutifully.

“What movie is this?” Laura asked her quietly.

There was a long pause. Carmilla lowered her eyes from the television screen, staring out at nothing in particular in the shadows flitting across the room.

“Something German,” Carmilla muttered. Her eyes dragged back up to the screen, stayed there.

Laura watched. It looked grainy, black and white, post-war, not that she was much of an expert on cinema. German audio with English subtitles. Carmilla spoke German at a near-fluent level thanks to her mother; Laura wondered which language she was following in.

Sometimes she cried out in her sleep in German, bitter words dripping from her mouth into the still night air like venom. Laura Googled them occasionally, she never picked up much of the language despite her time at Silas, and was never surprised at the expletives her search turned up.

She glanced over, watched Carmilla in profile. Her eyes kept flicking back and forth between the subtitles and the scene, though it didn’t seem like Carmilla took enough time to read the text before her eyes returned to the action. She reached for another cigarette, idly lighting it and taking a single drag of smoke before ignoring it once more, her chin returning to rest on her hand.

Laura sighed, irritated by the other girl’s taciturn behaviour.

They sat in silence for nearly ten minutes before Carmilla stood up suddenly, silently, and walked out of the room, smouldering cigarette still dangling between her fingers. A building on screen had caught alight and Laura hadn’t paid enough attention to the dialogue to know, or to care, why. She waited, bated breath, to see if Carmilla was coming back before she reached over and turned off the television, flaming building extinguished by the black screen. Perhaps she was finally asleep.

She collected her water and turned to head up to bed when she saw Carmilla standing at the door, boots and jacket on, reaching for the doorknob.

“You’re going out?” Laura asked. “At this time of night?”

Carmilla looked back at her for a long, awkward moment, lips pursed, before she turned away from Laura wordlessly and opened the front door.

“God, what the fuck is your problem?” Laura snarled.

Carmilla didn’t pause again. The door shut quietly behind her. Laura climbed the stairs to their bedroom, alone, in anger.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I love the whole moody asshole vibe going on, I promise things will be picking up a bit in the chapter following this!

_Nine weeks earlier_  
_31 March_

Carmilla was sitting across from Laura in the booth, her face lowered and cast in shadow, her long hair obscuring her left eye. Laura’s eyes were wandering around the diner, jumping between happy patrons and their friends, some preparing for a night out, some returning from their own, buzzed. She listened to the dull hum of pleasant conversation, compounded by Carmilla’s awful silence.

Laura was still dressed in her work clothes, exhausted after a long day. Tomorrow was Thursday, print day, and she’d had nine pieces to turn around. By close of play she’d been desperate to leave, and when Lola Perry, one of the other junior reporters, suggested a bite to eat, Laura realised that she hadn’t seen Carmilla eat anything in nearly two days.

She’d politely declined Perry before dialling Carmilla’s number and eventually getting her to agree to meet at the nearest diner to the house. Few establishments were taking walk-in’s at this time of night; it was past midnight, the clock creeping steadily up to one a.m. with every agonising second.

Laura stared at Carmilla’s left hand as it traced the rim of her coffee cup. She’d been doing that for at least ten minutes now. Laura rolled her eyes, propped her elbows up on the table edge and rubbed at her face with her hands.

Carmilla looked up suddenly, but not at Laura. “How was work?” she asked, idly.

“It was awful.” Laura waited until the brunette finally met her gaze before she continued. “Copy deadline day always is. Not to mention the number of agencies calling up for a last-minute sell-in, which is such a waste of time.”

Carmilla hummed in acknowledgement. She dipped her pinky finger in her coffee, black with two sugars, before bringing it to her mouth. “Any breakers this week?” She slowly wrapped her lips around the digit, savouring the taste of her coffee.

Laura blushed, shifted uncomfortably in her seat before blinking the image away.

“There’s no mention of your mother, if that’s what you’re wondering.” She took a reassuring sip of her own coffee.

“Oh,” was all Carmilla said. She turned to her plate and stabbed a piece of pancake with her fork, pushing it around on the plate to soak up the syrup, before taking a tentative bite.

Laura watched her hands move, saw the whiteness of the scars on her knuckles, evidence of the brutal past that the brunette had to live with every day. Laura felt a brief wash of sympathy, a feeling that she had not experienced for the other girl in a very, very long time. She looked up again, met her lifeless green eyes, smiled wryly.

She looked half starved to death, far from the girl who shamelessly stole Laura’s cookies and kissed her with chocolate chip tongue in the college dorm room. Carmilla had been working for her mother even then, but somehow she was happier, and everything was so much easier to ignore when the brunette was peppering lazy kisses down Laura’s throat, giggling softly at Laura’s moans.

Before Laura had a chance to ask Carmilla what she had been up to earlier that day, their server was suddenly at their table. She glanced up at him, but his attention was solely on Carmilla.

“Excuse me, miss,” he began. He reached over and placed a business card on the table. “Someone asked me to give this to you.” Carmilla didn’t acknowledge his existence, continued to swirl a fork of pancake around in the pool of syrup on her plate. Laura quietly thanked him, and he smiled politely before walking away. Laura watched Carmilla as she finished eating the half of her pancake, then reached for her coffee, ignoring the card altogether. Frustrated, Laura reached across the table and snatched up the card.

“The Box Cocktail Bar,” she read. Carmilla’s eyes flickered in recognition, but Laura didn’t see the subtle change in her expression.

“Do you know a Mr. W.E. Luce?” she asked Carmilla. Carmilla sat silent for a very long time, slowly chewing her mouthful of pancake.

“No.” she said finally, flatly. 

Laura sighed. “You haven’t spoken to me in so long you’ve even forgotten how to lie to me.”

Carmilla sipped at her coffee, her eyes darkened considerably. She reached out and snapped the card out of Laura’s grasp with an almost violent, if not fluidly graceful, flick of her hand. She peered at the card critically as she returned her cup to the table, her eyes darting back up to Laura’s blank expression once before she examined the address and phone number printed neatly beneath the logo. Memorised the information. Tossed the card aside idly as if she couldn’t care less. She stabbed her fork at another piece of pancake.

Laura had lost her appetite. She flagged their server to get the bill for their breakfast.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised things would start picking up, so here, have some drama! Trigger warning: gun violence (ignore the gun pun)

_Three months later_  
_3 July_

“Just another week, William. Just one more,” the man wheedled helplessly. His eyes were darting wildly between the club owner and the two thugs that sat casually at either side of him. Cast in the omnipresent red glow of the club, his features took on a grotesque layer of madness.

Will ran his hand through his unruly hair and sat back on the bench. “Kook,” he began, but the man wouldn’t let him speak.

“Please, Will. You know I’m good for it. We go way back after all, right?”

Will looked irritated. “You’ve been saying that for two months.” His voice was flat, his expression dangerous.

“Just one more. Please?” the man squeaked. Will glanced over at his sister. Carmilla was totally disenchanted with the entire situation, but he knew she was sick of seeing the obsequious Theo Kook get dragged in, week after week, and beg and whine for more time. He was sick of it, too.

Carmilla looked up, met his gaze. Will sighed heavily. “Get out, Kook,” he ordered, though he was still staring at Carmilla.

Theo remained seated. “Will-”

Will and Carmilla turned simultaneously to glare at the man. “Get. Out.” Will snarled.

Theo remained frozen, until one of the thugs stood up rather suddenly. He stood up equally fast, knocking the chair over behind him, before he skittered away, his head down, winding his way towards the back of the club, trying to make a quick escape.

There was a long silence at the table. The standing lackey turned to Will and Carmilla questioningly.

Will waved his hand distractedly, and the thug turned to follow Theo out of the club, but Carmilla stopped him. “Wait,” she said, turning to Will. “Let me do it,” she murmured.

Will shook his head. “You don’t have to.”

“Please?” She shot him that stunning Karnstein smile, the type they’d both inherited from their mother, and he laughed.

He slid his hand beneath his jacket, found his holstered pistol, and snapped it free with his thumb. Carmilla’s smile was almost guilty, like a school girl who had been caught staring at her crush, as he handed her his Beretta. Her face visibly lit up, fingers curling reflexively around the grip of the pistol. It was lighter than her usual choice of weapon, and Will’s custom grip felt awkward and unfamiliar in her hand, but the rush of adrenaline suddenly coursing through her veins was just the same as before. Will gave her a curt nod, didn’t bother to step aside as she moved away.

She didn’t even attempt to conceal the weapon as she walked quickly towards the back of the club. If anyone noticed that she was armed, they didn’t appear to care. As she reached the back of the building, she saw the door settle closed a second before she shoved it open with one arm.

She cast a quick glance towards the street. A lone figure, hood raised over their head, was striding out of the alley. Not caring about the risk that it might not be the right man, Carmilla raised the pistol in one hand, aimed at his legs, and fired a single shot.

The blast echoed off the high walls of the alley like a crack of thunder, drowned out by the high-pitched scream a moment later.

 _Yup. That’s Kook._ She smirked.

As she approached him calmly, body thrumming with adrenaline, the weasel rolled over onto his back, wailing piteously. The bullet had entered the back of his left knee, had blown out his knee cap, destroying his leg. Not bad for her first shot in three years. If she let him live, he would never walk again.

But that wasn’t really an issue right now. She didn’t plan on letting him live.

He tried to sit up, opened his mouth to beg, to plead, but Carmilla didn’t want to hear it. She placed her boot over his mouth, slamming his head back into the asphalt, blood now dribbling down his chin. Her foot still in place, Carmilla leaned forwards, putting her weight on his face, and stared down at him in utter contempt.

His final cry came out as a smothered squeal. She had nothing to say to him. Her mouth twisted into a bitter sneer, and she raised the Beretta from her side, placing two bullets in his heart.

When she stepped back from the rapidly dying man the impact of what she had just done struck her. She hadn’t killed a man in three years, hadn’t expected to have to kill again. But then here she was, killing for, of all things, _pleasure._

She had to get out of here. She had to get home.

She turned to leave, but Will was suddenly there. He calmly took the pistol from her, thumbed the safety on, and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

They’d never been close as siblings, their entire lives feeling more like colleagues employed by the criminal mastermind that was their mother than a real brother and sister, but suddenly Carmilla felt Will pulling her into an embrace, and she let him.

“It’s good to have you back, Kitty.” Carmilla remained frozen, her arms hanging limply at her sides. There were tears in her eyes, her heart thudding in her chest, her breathing uneven, heavy. She wasn’t sure that she wanted this life again, but it was all so very familiar.

Composing herself quickly, she pulled away from Will, a smirk settling onto her face, and she turned back towards the club, ignoring the sounds of Will’s thugs dragging the corpse further into the alley by his one good leg.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one nearly killed me to write, and I debated for so long whether to post it or to delete it completely, but in the end I think it adds so much more grit and depth to the story, which is what I wanted (I didn't want a lighthearted story, after all). Let me know what you think though!
> 
> Again, tw: violence.

_One day later_  
_4 July_

At around half past eleven Laura pulled into the driveway.

She was exhausted from work, hot and uncomfortable. Her hair kept falling loose from her untidy bun and drifting across her eyes and it was starting piss her off. All she wanted was to get inside the house, have a shower, and then spend the rest of the evening doing absolutely nothing.

She switched off the engine and the radio fell silent with it. She kicked the door open with one foot as she reached over into the passenger footwell to collect her bag and laptop, and stepped out into the humid summer evening.

The house was dark when she got in, and she tripped over something before she managed to turn the lights on. She sighed, frustrated, when she saw Carmilla’s boots in the middle of the floor.

_So much for a quiet evening._

She shoved Carmilla’s boots to the side with one foot before removing the light jacket she’d stupidly put on this morning and dropping her bag on the side of the stairs. She was nearly silent as she trekked towards the kitchen, but Carmilla heard her anyway, sat up stiffly from where she was lying on the couch.

Laura ignored her, walking straight past. She opened the refrigerator, knowing full well that it would be empty, but was angry anyway when it was confirmed. Frustrated, defeated, she took a glass from the drainer and filled it with tap water before she turned to leave.

She didn’t know why she even bothered, but she sat down on the couch with Carmilla anyway. She took a sip from her glass and set it down on the coffee table before she looked across at the girl. Her appearance was nothing short of shocking. Her skin was pallid grey, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, her expression withdrawn. She held an unlit cigarette in her fingers and was tapping it idly on the edge of the couch. Laura glanced around quickly for a lighter, found Carmilla’s Zippo on the floor beside her, thumbing the ornate ‘K’ engraved on one side, before tossing it over. Carmilla caught it, but didn’t light the cigarette.

“How-how are you?” Carmilla stuttered. Her voice was hoarse.

“I’m fine.” Laura said quietly.

Carmilla nodded slowly, flicked her lighter open with her thumb and then snapped it shut again.

“How are you?” Laura added, for conversation’s sake. Carmilla gestured briefly with a wave of her hand, but said nothing. She placed the cigarette between her lips and rubbed at her forehead with the heel of her palm. Laura caught sight of the dark stain on her shirt when she lowered her arm again.

“There’s blood on your shirt,” Laura said, mildly accusing.

“My nose was bleeding.”

Laura found nothing wrong with her explanation, but she couldn’t trust Carmilla anymore, not even over trivial matters. She glanced down at Carmilla’s leg; she was bouncing it up and down on the ball of her foot, restlessly, compulsively. It was irritating. “There’s blood on your pants, too.”

Carmilla lit her cigarette and carefully placed the lighter down on the coffee table.

Silence.

“Where have you been for the last three days?” Laura piped up conversationally.

Carmilla didn’t answer for a very long time. “Don’t ask me that,” she muttered.

“But I’d like to know.”

“And I don’t feel like talking about it.”

A pause.

“Carm-”

“I don’t fucking owe you anything, Laura,” Carmilla suddenly snapped.

Laura’s expression was incredulous. “You know…” she began harshly, paused, swallowed her pride, then continued in a calmer tone. “I’m just worried about you,” she finished quietly.

“There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Carm, I never know what’s going on with you anymore. I don’t know when you’re leaving or when, _if_ , you’re coming back…” Laura trailed off.

Carmilla stared at her blankly, her eyes glassy, smoke trailing languidly from her mouth. “It doesn’t matter.”

“What?” Laura leaned close to her, her expression determine. “Look at yourself, for fuck’s sake. You are sick. Do you even sleep any more? I haven’t seen you eat or drink in practically three months!”

Carmilla rolled her eyes, and moved to stand up, but Laura grabbed her shirt at the shoulder and yanked her back around violently. “No, I’m not finished talking to you.”

“That’s funny,” Carmilla hissed, “because I’m just about through talking to you.”

“What happened to you? You’ve changed.”

Carmilla looked very slowly at the hand on her shoulder. “Let go of me.” When Laura didn’t respond, Carmilla moved to press her cigarette to Laura’s wrist, daring, but the other girl swiped at the cigarette with her other hand, broke it.

“Answer my fucking question!” Laura screamed.

“You know, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking over the past three years,” Carmilla began, flicking the cigarette, now little more than a filter, at the ash tray on the table; missed.”You know, about my life before I met you, and my life after I met you, and I’ve come to a conclusion..."

“Don’t you dare,” Laura warned through gritted teeth.

“ _You_ happened to me, Laura. _You_ changed me.”

“I’m to blame?” Laura was actually hurt, and Carmilla could hear it in her voice.

Laura closed her eyes to stop the tears. Her hands her shaking, but she wouldn’t let go of Carmilla’s shirt. “After everything we’ve been through…”

“After everything,” Carmilla agreed. Laura opened her eyes again, searched for Carmilla’s. Tears threatened to spill down her cheeks. All she saw written across the other girl’s face was sickness, contempt, disappointment.

“Let go of me,” Carmilla repeated, softer this time.

“I can’t believe you,” Laura cried. “I cannot fucking believe you. After _everything_ , after I stayed with you all these years, after I moved to this fucking city for you, after I _helped you_...”

“It wasn’t enough,” Carmilla murmured.

“Why wasn’t it enough?” Laura insisted. “I gave you everything I could!”

“No!” Carmilla screamed back. “ _I_ gave you everything! _Everything!_ I destroyed my whole fucking life for you! I gave up everything I knew for you. _I don’t owe you anything!_ ”

Laura slapped Carmilla hard across the face, sending the brunette reeling.

Carmilla gave Laura a look so vehement that she instantly regretted what she’d done, and then Carmilla was on her, crushing her into the arm of the couch with her full weight, knees either side of Laura’s waist, both hands at her throat. “Don’t you _ever_ fucking touch me again,” Carmilla hissed in her face. There was blood in her teeth from her split lip.

Laura clawed at Carmilla’s fingers, but the assassin would not relent. Catching hold of the last two fingers on her left hand, Laura pried them off of her neck, bent them back, broke them. The blood immediately drained from Carmilla’s face.

Carmilla released her, reeled, half collapsed off of Laura and screamed, her injured hand cradled against her stomach. She raised her left hand, shaking violently, and bent her broken fingers back into place.

She looked as though she was about to be violently ill, and if Laura thought she was pale before, now she was positively ashen.

Carmilla staggered from the couch, bent doubled, and screamed again.

Laura wasn’t sure what to do. She was standing up now, both hands touching her throat, breathing heavily.

“I gave up everything!” Carmilla screamed into the floor. She was sobbing helplessly. “I don’t know if it was even worth it.”

Laura was heartbroken. She hadn't witnessed this much emotion from Carmilla in months. She watched her cry for a long time.

“And you?” Carmilla suddenly asked. She lurched upright, her eyes glassy, bright in the poor light. She still looked as though she might vomit at any given moment. “Was it worth it for you?”

Laura lowered her hands from her throat, looking Carmilla in the eye, and answered honestly. “Yes, it was.”

“No,” was the strangled reply.

Laura shook her head slowly. “I loved you, Carmilla Karnstein. And you loved me. I know you did.”

Carmilla looked away again, staring back down at the floor. “And now?” Her voice was broken, barely audible.

“Now, you won’t let me love you anymore.”

Carmilla convulsed, choked back a sob. “No. I can’t let you anymore.”

“Why not, Carm?”

The brunette didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. She stumbled to the door and left.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and [somewhat] sweet. And by sweet I mean there's no violence in this one...

_Three hours later_  
_5 July_

Carmilla felt nauseous as Will stabilised her broken fingers with a wooden splint, carefully taping them together.

“Are you sure you don’t want to see a doctor?” he asked her quietly.

Carmilla scoffed. “I’ve broken my fingers before, Willy-boy. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” he murmured, dubiously. “But I don’t know, your hand is pretty swollen…”

“Just tape it up and stop looking at it,” she snapped irritably.

Will nodded. He wrapped the black hockey tape twice around her palm before he tore the end off with his fingers and patted her wrist reassuringly. “Done. Just don’t break any more, that was my last popsicle stick.”

Carmilla stared at him incredulously, but couldn’t help but laugh when he winked at her. She carefully bent the remaining fingers on her left hand and flexed her wrist, frowning. “Great. Now not only can I not use my hand for a month, but I look like an idiot, too.”

Will shrugged, tucked the roll of tape in a box of assorted items beneath the bar, then turned to fix the two of them a drink. “You’ve always looked like an idiot to me, Kitty,” he taunted, placing a glass in front of her and pouring in a generous measure of bourbon.

Carmilla flipped him off before taking a gulp of the liquid, welcoming the burn as it slid down her throat.

“So are you going to tell me what happened, or do I have to guess?”

He cracked open a bottle of beer and leant against the back bar, facing his sister on the opposite side.

“Guess,” Carmilla muttered darkly, finishing her bourbon in another mouthful.

“Okay,” Will stepped forwards again to retrieved the whisky bottle for his sister. “Volleyball game?” he ventured.

Carmilla laughed as she took the bottle from him. “I don’t even like volleyball.”

“Oh? Why not? It’s because you’re too short to reach over the net, right?”

Carmilla scowled. “It’s a stupid sport, anyway.”

She unscrewed the bottle and poured herself another measure.

Will laughed again, taking a swig from his beer. “Okay. How about… a motorcycle accident?”

Carmilla glared at him. “That one doesn't even merit a response.”

“Alright, alright. I’ve figured it out,” he smirked triumphantly. “It all makes sense now.”

“Hit me.”

“You got in a fight with your girlfriend,” he said.

Carmilla hoped he was joking. “Spot on,” she murmured, before downing her second glass and dropping it back onto the bar. She watched the legs slowly crawl down the inside of the glass, finger tracing at the rim.

“How is she doing, anyway?”

“Who?”

Will looked at her again, held her gaze. “Laura.”

Carmilla went cold. “How do you know about her?” Her voice was just a whisper.

Will gave a warm smile, but Carmilla suddenly felt threatened. “News travels fast in the criminal underworld, Kitty. Especially when it concerns us Karnstein’s.”

Carmilla sat in silence, before reaching for the bourbon once again, ignoring Will’s lighthearted “my club can’t afford your drinking habits” jibe from earlier.

“You won’t hurt her, will you?” Carmilla asked him suddenly.

“Who?” Will plored, previous conversation clearly already slipping to the back of his mind.

“Laura.”

Will laughed, and it set Carmilla’s nerves on edge.

“No, no, don’t worry. If she minds her own business, she has nothing to worry about.”

Carmilla was somewhat frightened by Will’s implicit threat. Mother’s second in command or not, he was still her younger brother, and Will’s confidence unnerved her.

“You know I’d kill you, right?” She murmured.

Will nodded and sipped at his beer, face slightly paler.


	8. Chapter 8

_Three weeks later_   
_27 July_

Carmilla sat at the window overlooking the street, bored. She had dragged a heavy padded arm chair, upholstered with a rough and ugly paisley patterned fabric, up close to the open window and sat on the back of it with both feet on the cushion. Across her lap sat a sniper rifle, over a meter long, the German TPG-1. It was uncomfortable to hold the twenty-something pound firearm, bipod extended, box magazine loaded, but she’d rather sit with it on her lap than stand at the window for hours.

She wondered what was taking Will so long.

Behind her there was another man, one of Will’s muscle. He was wandering around the apartment, snooping through cupboards, helping himself to anything that caught his eye in the refrigerator, which appeared to be just about everything. He had set his AK-74U on the kitchen counter almost two full hours ago, and hadn’t stopped grazing since.

Carmilla wondered briefly whose apartment they were in. It was nice, considering the state of the rest of the old building, but it didn’t seem very personalised. More like a model home with a fully stocked fridge. Even Carmilla’s home, well, house that she shared with Laura, had a couple of quirky magnets on the refrigerator and a framed photo or two.

A slight breeze sent her hair falling into her eyes, but she was grateful for the fresh air. It was a stagnantly hot summer afternoon. At least she had a nice view, however; just a street across from her was the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine; behind it she could make out the foliage of Morningside Park. Will was supposed to meet someone at the Peace Fountain, although he never told her why. She supposed that was sensitive information given the fact that he had designated her as sniper support, but it didn’t make her any happier about having to follow her younger brother’s orders. She’d need to take orders and climb the hierarchy again, Karnstein blood coursing through her veins or not.

She glanced down at the fountain once more and sighed in boredom, her eyes scanning the gardens and throngs of people milling about. Resting her left elbow carefully on her overburdened lap, Carmilla dropped her chin into her palm, carefully avoiding her splinted fingers. Over the past three years she had all but forgotten how utterly boring this sort of preparation actually was; even if Will did hurry up, there was no guarantee that her services would even be required. She could be stuck at this window, peering through her scope, for who knows how long. She strained to remember what she did to entertain herself on gruelling jobs like this in the past; came up short.

Despite her apparent memory loss, however, her skills had not declined beyond repair.

The man behind her, her nameless guardian, was drumming his hands on the edge of the countertop as she searched the cupboards relentlessly. He irritated her.

Then his phone range. The ringtone - the classic iPhone chime - annoyed her, too.

He kept the call brief and, after he hung up, abruptly snapped at her. “Get ready,” he said.

Wearily, Carmilla slipped from the top of the chair and headed to the window. She looked down twelve storeys to the street before she carefully set the rifle’s bipod on the window’s wide ledge, adjusting her footing, cracked her neck, and put her eye to the scope. Focusing on the face of the fountain, it was ten minutes before Will arrived, his eyes flitting back and forth between the building he knew Carmilla was in and the cathedral.

Twenty minutes passed. Carmilla spent her time watching idiotic tourists prance around the street. She enjoyed keeping their stupid faces within the sights of her rifle. It was juvenile, but it kept her occupied.

Suddenly, Will and his men turned towards the cathedral, waiting expectantly, unmoving. Carmilla turned her attention back to the job at hand, waited. Before long, a group of six men approached; she had never seen any of them before. Four of the newcomers spread themselves out in a makeshift perimeter, intimidating the tourists. Carmilla could tell Will was agitated by the way he stood, his back stiff, arms folded across his chest. He was wearing a blue suit. Carmilla smirked; the businessman guise didn’t suit Will in the slightest.

Carmilla began scanning the crowd with her scope, and was suddenly struck by a sense of dread. There were far more than six men down there, watching Will expectantly. Their feigned disinterest couldn’t hide the fact that they were heavily armed. She counted at least four more, dispersed throughout the crowds of innocent civilians. Ten targets, probably more, to a single sniper. Carmilla’s fingers tightened over the pistol grip of her rifle.

Her attention turned back to Will. It was clear that he realised the situation he was in and was displeased. His face was contorted in anger, fear, too, and his eyes were on the apartment building, searching for Carmilla, though she knew that he wouldn’t be able to see her. The men he was meeting with seemed stubborn, obstinate, proud. They knew they had the upper hand in whatever negotiations were taking place.

She internally cursed Will; clearly he hadn’t taken as firm a hold of the reins in her three year absence as he claimed he had. She was angry with Will for putting her in a position of so much pressure without even bothering to explain why. Especially now, when things were rapidly turning ugly, way out of Will’s control.

She slowly pivoted, drew the ringleader within her sights, and gently rested her finger on the trigger.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: more violence in this chapter. As always, let me know what you think, or come say hello on tumblr (i'm p boring but i do follow back): ohdaytona.tumblr.com

_An hour later_   
_27 July_

Carmilla’s heart was pounding in her ears, too loud, too fast.

There were too many people on the sidewalk, too many people in her way, so she leapt from the curb and darted into the slow-moving traffic. A car honked at her, there were shouts from behind; she was too afraid to look back. She was too afraid to think of anything besides getting away, but New York City wasn’t Silas; she didn’t know her way around very well.

The chaos at the cathedral seemed to be largely contained, but it didn’t make her feel any safer as she sped past grungy shops and historic buildings, hotels, churches and coffee shops. Her breath was ragged in her throat and the laces of one of her boots was coming untied, loosening with every pounding step. She was starting to panic, losing focus. She just wanted to hide until it all went away, but at the same time, she was terrified of the idea of stopping her desperate sprint.

She was coming up to a large intersection. It was too exposed, so she turned suddenly and hurtled down the alley between two buildings. She could see another sidewalk at the end, a quieter street. Things were looking up.

Of course things  _did_ look that way, until someone stepped out in front of her from the sidewalk and turned to meet her. She collided with him at almost full speed and he grabbed hold of her shirt at the shoulders, pivoted, and hurled her back into the alleyway onto the concrete. The impact drove all of the air from Carmilla’s lungs, set her head spinning, mind reeling. Her bare elbows were badly grazed, her back aching already from the fall, but she didn’t feel it. All she felt was terror as the man struggled to keep her writhing body beneath him by planting a knee in her stomach and putting his weight on her shoulders.

She was screaming at him, breathlessly, and he was grinning, snarling at her to shut up. People were stopping to stare, standing at the mouth of the alley, but no one dared get close enough to help her. She struggled, managed to get her fist up, struck him hard across the face twice, twisted her body sharply to the side and managed to get out from under his knee. There was a glint of silver and suddenly a knife in his hands, at her face, and her left hand shot out, grabbed his wrist, wrenched the blade away from her throat. He was swearing now, his voice low and threatening. He released her shoulder briefly, reached over with his other hand, grasped the partially mended fingers on her left hand and savagely wrenched them back, breaking them again.

Carmilla’s wail was piercing, agonised, and without even thinking about it she drove her right thumb into his eye socket, past her first knuckle. The man gasped, dropped the knife, both spasming hands rising reflexively to his face. She lowered her hand again, fingers throbbing, grasped wildly for the fallen knife, shifted her grip on it and swung wildly at his throat. The blade entered the side of his neck, pierced through his windpipe, lodged into place. She tried to pull it free, had tugged it part of the way out, before the man threw himself back, collapsing onto the sidewalk, gurgling and choking.

Carmilla rolled free of him, her left hand useless and cradled to her stomach, limbs shaking, tears streaking down her cheeks. She struggled to her feet and took two staggering steps before she bent double, the blinding pain in her left hand so strong she thought she might vomit. People on the street were calling to her, shouting at her, trying to touch her, to see if she was alright, but she flung their sympathy off, found it an anathema, tried to run away from it.

There was suddenly someone at her side, grabbing her by both arms, yanking her away. She glanced up and saw that it was the thug from the room, the one who had grazed the kitchen bare before it all happened. She tried to stop him from taking her away but her boots skidded uselessly on the concrete, failing to take purchase, and he was dragging her. She gave up, let him lead her off the street, away from public view. He was rough but protective, and she appreciated it; she didn’t want to be vulnerable any more.

Regaining some of her composure, she turned and set a baleful eye upon him. “Where the fuck have you been?” she hissed.

He didn’t say anything, just fumbled in his pocket for his phone. He dialled a number quickly with his thumb, hoarsely muttered the name of an intersection in a voice that sounded too young to even get away with ordering a beer, before slipping the phone back into his pocket. They had scarcely stepped free from the alley when a Phantom swerved towards the sidewalk and slowed. The door opened, and the thug shoved Carmilla in quickly before jumping inside after her before the vehicle had even rolled to a halt.

Carmilla slid across the leather back seat awkwardly as the car set off again, her body colliding into someone’s knees. Someone helped her up, turned her to look a him, and it was Will. Carmilla nearly wept with relief when she saw her brother’s face. Nearly.

He tried to pull her into the seat beside him, but she struggled, pushing him away with the heel of her one good hand. “Who the fuck were they?!” she screamed at him, on the verge of tears.

He didn’t answer. But then again, she didn’t expect him to.

She tried to sit upright on the seat, but she was shaking badly, and her scraped elbows were dripping blood on the seats and on Will’s jacket. She held up her left hand to show Will, was almost violently ill when she saw the awkward angle that her fingers were bent to, covered her mouth with her right hand and closed her eyes.

“He broke my fucking fingers again,” she whispered.

He grimaced at her broken bones, but said nothing.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one I'm afraid. Again, more gun violence in this one. Enjoy!

_Fifty minutes earlier_   
_27 July_

Through the scope Carmilla watched the argument escalate, trying to piece together the conversation through the silent gesturing, the palpable agitation. Will had turned to leave, frantically waving to his men on the ground, turning his back on the other man with great courage and audacity. An inaudible shout brought Will back around, froze him in place. The other two men advanced on him.

Will reached into his jacket.

The second man pulled out a gun.

Carmilla shifted her aim a fraction of a centimetre and pulled the trigger. The blowback hammered the butt of the rifle into Carmilla’s shoulder, would have stunned her had she not been quite so experienced at this sort of thing, her petite frame absorbing the recoil with practised ease. Without needing to verify that her first target was down, she spun to the crowd and simultaneously drew the bolt mechanism to load a new round, found another target that was already taking aim and fired again. The empty shell casing spun past her ear audibly, clattered to the floor beside her.

With two men dead in the street, the huge crowd broke and ran, scattering in every direction in panic, making Carmilla’s job much more difficult. She took aim at a third man, a moving target, feared he was moving too erratically. She fired regardless, missing him, but he slid to a panicked stop as the shot sent concrete shards exploding up from the ground. Mechanically, Carmilla released the empty box magazine, grabbed another from the window sill and slotted it into place, yanking on the bolt again. She put her eye to the scope again, taking a few moments to locate the target again, found him sprinting wildly. Her shot caught him in the left shoulder; he was spun around violently, 360 degrees, before he collapsed on his face in the street.

Her final two shots hit a man in the thigh, blew his leg out from under him, left him crawling, crippled, on the street, the second lodging itself in the base of his neck. She stopped then, looked for Will frantically, couldn’t find him, before the glass window pane beside her shattered. She threw herself to the ground, dragging the twenty-pound rifle down after her, with razor shards tinkling pleasantly around her. She gasped as another shot zipped audibly overhead, tore a hole through the plaster ceiling like it was paper.

She turned her gaze back to the kitchen to her partner, saw him crawling towards her on his elbows and knees. His eyes were wide. “Man, what the fuck was that?!”

“We have to leave,” she told him gruffly, shaking broken glass from her mane of hair. She looked up, searching, found the gun case and hurried over to it before she crawled back to the fallen weapon and set to work field-stripping it.

The man was crouching, brow furrowed, on edge. “Just leave it, lets go,” he told her, moved forward to grab her by the arm and pull her away. She shifted beyond his grip and gave him an incredulous look.

“I’m not leaving a gun at a crime scene, asshole,” she told him, her face a bitter sneer. He visibly recoiled. She was making quick work of the weapon in any case, though the barrel was still hot and burned her fingertips tender. “Collect the casings.”

He didn’t move. The both flinched as another sniper round zipped past just over his head, punching through the wall behind.

“Fuck, didn’t they ever teach you to police your brass?” Carmilla’s voice was so hard and bitter that he moved to obey rather than risk arguing with her further.

Scarcely two minutes later she was snapping the case shut when Will’s thug crawled towards her and grabbed the case by the handle.

“I’ve got six,” he said, dropping the brass cylinders into his jacket pocket. “Now we leave.”

“Yes,” she murmured, racing to the door bent completely double. She left the other man behind as she sprinted for the stairs, knowing how dangerous a position she was in now that they knew what building she was in.

Silently, vehemently, she cursed Will.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of Carmilla's background, and more of Will being an asshole!

_Eight days later_   
_4 August_

Carmilla was slouched, exhausted, against the concrete barrier of the balcony, headache throbbing in time to the beat of the music pumping out of the club below her. She was leaning back against the ledge, propped up on her right elbow while her left dangled at her side, cigarette, a permanent fixture, between her two good fingers. It was starting to get to her, those broken bones; aside from the fact that her hand throbbed painfully whenever it was below her heart, she found herself constantly banging it into things, found her entire hand immobilised by pain. She just wanted her hand to heal so she could use it again, so she could stop feeling crippled and useless.

Will was standing to the right of her, his hands on the balcony edge, leaning heavily. He was tired. Neither of them had been sleeping very well lately, but Carmilla seemed to be used to it by now. Will straightened, reached for his drink, and in the dim light cast by the flickering neon, Carmilla could see the ugly scars littering his arm, the memories of bullet wounds and stab wounds and assorted shrapnel recoil, some as old as Will himself.

It reminded her of her own scars, the hideous past experiences permanently scrawled all across her torso as though placed by some sadistic tattoo artist. Her first bullet wound, gained at the tender age of twelve years old, was little more than a dent in the flesh of her thigh now, though sometimes the limp returned. The more recent scars still shone, skin bright white and new against the old. The puckered bullet wounds put some serious restrictions on the type of clothing she found herself comfortable wearing these days.

Will had produced a cigarette from his own pack, cupped his hand around it as he lit it with a match, the flickering light revealing more scars on his hands. Carmilla stared at her own, comparing scrapes. She often wondered how their mother, the infamous Lillian Karnstein, had allowed her only two offspring to enter such a poisonous world in her footsteps, how she watched as they bore the scars of her illegal doings while she sat in hiding, barking orders through an untraceable wire.

‘Mother’ had never seemed the right word; Carmilla had always felt more an employee than a daughter, the Karnstein name now an inescapable curse. Will had thought the same at one point, Carmilla felt. She’d half hoped that her turning her back three years ago would inspire Will to follow suit. She’d been wrong; he’d gladly stepped up to fill her shoes as mother’s favourite the second she ran.

Though traitors were shot, Karnstein or not, he’d defied mother’s orders and let Carmilla live. She had that to be grateful for, at least.

“I’m sorry,” Will murmured, out of nowhere.

“Hmm?” Carmilla was caught off guard.

“For putting you in danger back at the cathedral. For putting you back into all of this. I’m sorry.”

He wasn’t, not really, but Carmilla nodded curtly. “You nearly fucked it up, big time, Willy-boy,” she let out with a sneer. “If mother found out-”

“Mother won’t find out!” Will snapped suddenly, banging a fist down on the concrete ledge. He took an angry drag on his cigarette, thick plume of smoke escaping his mouth into the humid night air. “What’s your fucking problem, huh? Can’t handle taking orders now you’re no longer her favourite?”

It stung, but Carmilla brushed it off. She’d sacrificed her position when she left, knew full well that were she ever to return she’d begin at the bottom, under Will’s command. He’d let the idea of power get to his head, didn’t know what to do with it, didn’t understand its full potential.

“I don’t think I want to be shot at anymore,” she told him bluntly.

Will turned his head to stare back out to the street below the balcony. “Are you losing your sense of adventure, Kitty? I find it thrilling.” He laughed at his own joke. She didn’t find it funny.

“I’ve been hit too many times already.”

“Has it spoiled your appetite?”

“Being riddled with bullets ruins the fun pretty fast.”

Will nodded once, before taking another drag on his cigarette. Carmilla followed suit, raising her own to her lips, wincing slightly as the sudden movement jarred her injured fingers.

“What’s the matter?” he asked her after a long silence.

“I don’t think I know what I’m doing back here.”

Will grunted quietly. “Is that all?” he asked, dismissively.

This wasn’t _her_ Will, her younger brother who had stood protectively by her side all his life, siblings united in mutual hatred of their mother. Mother had finally had a chance to get to him in Carmilla’s absence.

Carmilla frowned, flicked her still smouldering cigarette over the edge of the balcony, before turning to leave. Her expression was blank, lifeless. She was exhausted. “Yes,” she said. “That’s all.”

She crossed the balcony in three strides, slipping through the door back into the pounding club.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A much longer chapter this time, as thanks for all the super nice comments you guys have been leaving - they seriously get me through! Kudos to everyone who's stuck with this and put up with my crazy narrative formatting so far, fingers crossed you'll feel its worth it in the end when this is finally finished!
> 
> tw: lil' bit of graphic violence.

_Two months later_   
_28 September_

When Carmilla woke up she didn’t know where she was.

She was lying face-down on cold concrete, her entire body aching, her head throbbing, ears ringing. She tried to lift her head, found the side of her face stuck to the floor, was nauseated by the smell of mildew and her own blood.

She lay completely still for a very long time. Her arms were bound tightly behind her back, unyielding ties digging into the soft flesh of her wrists. The longer she lay there the harder she thought it was to breathe, so she finally, carefully rolled onto her side, groaning softly with the effort as she peeled her body from the floor.

There was movement behind her in the darkness, and a voice called out quietly. “Carmilla?”

It was that thug, the one that had been with her in the apartment, raiding the kitchen cupboards as she had sat watch. “I don’t know your name,” she admitted; was ashamed and puzzled about how she couldn’t know after seeing him nearly constantly for the past few months.

He laughed a little, a boyish chuckle, and it was reassuring. “Its Kirsch. Wilson Kirsch.”

She smiled too, stopped herself when she realised he wouldn’t be able to see it. “Where are we, Kirsch? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know where we are,” he said, “other than that we’re in a basement. You’ve been out for quite a while, I think. It’s taking a long time for them to track down the others.”

Carmilla tugged lightly on her bonds, winced. “What’s happening?"

“They’re collecting all of us, your mother’s people, Will’s really fucked up, sold us all out. He was working for both sides…” He trailed off. “They’re going to throw us all down here and burn the house down around us.”

Carmilla froze, her heart cold. “Are you serious?” Her voice was strained.

“Yeah. Dead serious,” Kirsch confirmed.

Carmilla wanted to cry. “Fuck,” she whispered. Repeated the word again and again, like a mantra.

“We gotta get out of here,” Kirsch muttered to himself.

Carmilla nearly laughed. “Good call, kiddo.”

“I have something here, I think, that might work to cut us free…” He didn’t sound very certain.

Carmilla met him with a dubious “hmm?”

“It’s a broken piece of glass. It’s big enough, I think. I’ve been trying to saw through these damn plastic ties for a while now, but I can’t get the angle right.” He paused, Carmilla heard him shuffle in the darkness. “They broke my arm,” he added. He sounded too young, too inexperienced, frightened.

Carmilla tried to think for a moment, found her mind clouded. “Broken glass?” she mused. “It might work. I doubt it, but it’s worth a try.” She rolled onto her back and shifting her muscles, head throbbing. “Hold on a minute,” she said, gritting her teeth.

She rolled up onto her shoulders, her back curved, legs above her. She stretched her arms as far as she could, brought her bound hands up the length of her back. The plastic ties caught on her belt, a momentary nuisance, before she gritted her teeth against the pain of the plastic digging into her wrists, managed to force her hands up until they were behind her knees. She stopped then, had to, tried to loosen the ties, to alleviate the pain. She took her weight off of her shoulders, back flat on the floor, and brought her knees up to her chin. Straightening her legs, it was easy then to pull her arms up and over her feet.

She let her feet fall heavily to the floor, gasped with relief, her hands now in front of her rather than behind. “Should have stretched beforehand,” she muttered.

“What did you do?” Kirsch asked.

She didn’t answer. Using her hands, she crawled onto her feet and took a few staggering, uncertain steps. Her feet felt numb, unused, like she hadn’t walked for weeks.

“Where are you?” she asked, voice hoarse.

“Over here,” came the reply. “Against the wall.”

She walked blindly towards his voice and nearly tripped, knocking over what sounded like a stack of wood. “What the fuck?”

“Kindling,” came Kirsch’s simple reply.

Carmilla skirted the debris with a renewed sense of urgency, found Kirsch when she accidentally kicked his foot and fell into a stiff crouch beside him.

“Its in my hand,” he told her.

She felt her way down his back in the darkness, found his hands, tied just as tightly as hers, grasping a good-sized shard of glass. She took it from him and tried to angle it downwards to saw at the plastic but found that she couldn’t get a good grip on it from that angle. Instead, she placed the glass between her feet, holding it tightly between the toes of her shoes, and brought her wrists down over where she imagined the point would be. She jabbed herself once, gasped, and then found an edge and began sawing carefully at the plastic tie.

She couldn’t tell if anything was being accomplished in the darkness but hoped it was. Thinking of their perilous position, she sped up her efforts, slipped, felt the glass, lukewarm from her grip, snake through the flesh of her palm. “Shit!” She gritted her teeth, had to stop, felt nauseous again. After a moment the sickness subsided and she set to work again, the glass slick with blood.

She cut herself four more times before the plastic finally gave, freeing her right hand. She could hear Kirsch’s smile in his voice as he commended her through her ceaseless utterances of profanity. She sought out his hands again, took the glass shard and set to work on freeing him. It was slower going, now that the glass was slick and the edges kept digging into her fingers and cutting them. She didn’t have time to free him, however, before the sound of voices and footsteps filtered down from above.

A door swung open somewhere, light cascading down a wooden flight of steps and spilling over the trash-littered concrete. Partially blinded but finally able to see, Carmilla skittered off into the darkness beside the steps, left Kirsch where he was, the glass still gripped tightly in her hand. She paused, waiting, her heart beating painfully, erratically.

Someone was clumping down the stairs slowly, taking his time, shouting up to someone behind him that he was going. He got to the bottom of the steps and Carmilla could see him, a rather small man dressed in filthy jeans and a wife beater, his face hidden beneath the brim of his baseball cap. He paused, looked around; looked right at Carmilla, and she held her breath, but he squinted into the shadows and couldn’t see her. He turned to Kirsch, who was lying perfectly still, pretending to be unconscious.

“Hey,” said the man. Kirsch didn’t respond. “Hey!” he shouted louder. “I thought there were two of you down here, where’s the Karnstein bitch?”

Kirsch remained silent and received a hard kick in the hip for his obstinacy. His groan sounded distant, groggy. “What?” he slurred.

Carmilla smiled at Kirsch’s marvellous acting, but her face suddenly darkened when the new man started kicking him again, boot colliding painfully with Kirsch’s legs and torso. Kirsch cried out again and again but didn’t answer. Carmilla waited, her eyes on the stairs, trying to see if anyone else would come down the stairs before she acted.

She crouched hastily, placed the broken glass on the ground beside her, and silently worked to undo her belt buckle, pulling it free from her belt loops. The man was still kicking at Kirsch, shouting at him, when she came up from behind. She threw the weighted end of the belt around his neck, caught him by surprise, crossed the ends behind his head and pulled hard. Instantly he fell silent, strangled, though he struggled and gurgled. He twisted, tried to throw her off of him, but she side-kicked the back of his leg hard, buckled it, brought him to his knees. Both of his hands were up at his throat, scrabbling at the belt, when she jumped on him, both her knees on the back of his neck, and drove him face-first into the floor. They both went crashing to the concrete, Carmilla landing first on his head, trying to ignore the sickly crunch of his spine, before she rolled to the side and landed on an unsuspecting Kirsch’s legs.

His dead limbs spasmed once before he fell completely still. He was crumpled almost comically, bent completely double. Carmilla climbed to her feet, suddenly out of breath. She glanced towards the stairs quickly, fearfully, was relieved when she saw no one there. Grasping the ends of her belt again, she yanked the dead man back, laying him out flat on the floor, and dragged him from the light into the shadows by his strangely elongated and grotesquely angled neck. He left a wet smear of blood behind him, a clear path directly to her hiding place.

Carmilla swore silently, dropped his head to the floor and searched his belt for a weapon. He didn’t have a gun, to her disappointment, but he had a rather large knife, and she was glad to see that it had a serrated edge near the bottom when she unfolded it.

Checking the top of the stairs again, Carmilla scuttled out to meet Kirsch, who was on his knees and struggling onto his feet. She ran around behind him, held him still with one hand and brought the knife blade to the plastic. Within seconds she had sawed through it, and both of them disappeared into the shadows again by the time a second man’s voice filtered down the stairs.

“Hey, Eugene!” came the angry shout. “Where the fuck did you go?”

More footsteps down the stairs and the second man appeared. He looked around, was suddenly frightened by the complete absence of anybody, his grip suddenly tightening on his gun. Carmilla watched him carefully, saw that he left the safety on, hoped that it would remain that way. He traipsed over towards the streaked puddle of blood and examined the dead man’s baseball cap for a second, flipping it over with his boot, before he carefully picked his way over the scattered debris and headed right for the shadows where Kirsch and Carmilla stood, crouched and waiting.

Carmilla picked her way carefully through the darkness, moving to the side to flank him, knife at the ready. She wasn’t sure how she was going to manage to defeat the gunman with a blade, but found her hand forced anyway.

He was within arms reach when he suddenly noticed her, spun around with a cry and brought his gun up to bear. It was pointed directly at her chest when he pulled the trigger, found the safety on, swore quickly as he staggered back out of her reach and thumbed the switch up. Carmilla dove at him, tried to outdo him with her speed, but the gun was still between them.

Then Kirsch was there. The back-pedalling man crashed into him and the thug brought one arm around his head, a huge hand covering his mouth and nose, crushing his head into Kirsch’s chest. The gunman, shocked, instinctively brought his hands up to Kirsch’s face, and then Carmilla was on him, knife flashing, stuck him like a ham, the straight half of the blade sliding into his stomach easily until the serrated end caught on his clothing, stopped.

The man’s scream was muffled as she sliced the blade through his stomach, yanking it free. Kirsch pulled his head back, exposed his throat, and Carmilla lunged again with the practised hand of a professional. He couldn’t scream anymore, his windpipe sawed clean through, and so Kirsch let him drop to the floor, a quietly gurgling, bleeding mess.

Carmilla was breathing heavily, elated, high on adrenaline and endorphins. She gave Kirsch a horrified smile, one that was all teeth, her hands shaking. Kirsch bent low to retrieve the man’s Glock, searching him with one hand for spare ammo. Carmilla crouched beside him, cleaning the blade off on the dispatched man’s clothes.

“What say you we get out of here?” Kirsch muttered.

Carmilla wouldn’t look at him. She merely nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, that Will is a real asshole, huh?


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet (aka no one dies in this chapter). Enjoy!

_Three months earlier_   
_4 July_

Carmilla walked home, plodding along in the heat, exhausted. She didn’t remember much of the long trek, but didn’t care much either. She had an awful lot on her mind and couldn’t be bothered with little things like that. She felt worn out, hollow, and vaguely ill. Worst of all, though, she felt like a failed human being.

It took her a while to find the right key.

Laura was out and she was glad for it, had been infinitely relieved when she saw the empty driveway. All she needed now was a little peace and quiet, without the inevitable interrogation from her doubtless rather angry girlfriend. Part of Carmilla felt bad for just leaving her like she had for the past few days; part of her was too sick; whatever remained was a vaguely bitter self-righteous belief in her own independence. She had every right to disappear for a few days, and the girl who lived in the house that she paid for simply had to accept that.

She finally found the right key, slid it into the lock, hesitated. Her bloodshot eyes scanned the street and saw absolutely nothing alive. It was good, though, and she had chosen the neighbourhood for that very reason. She didn’t know her neighbours and was especially glad that they didn’t know her, didn’t know who she was related to and didn’t know what she did. Her view of other people had grown violently condescending over the past few months, with nearly everyone becoming a mere source of irritation, stupid faces with stupid names to match, idiots one and all. Idiots whom she wouldn’t think twice about when she stomped them down in the street and plugged their chest full of holes.

She shuddered involuntarily, turned the key and then the doorknob, and staggered into the house.

She simply kicked off her shoes and left them in the middle of the floor, dropping her keys in the corner. She stood there for a very long time, glancing up the silent stairs, into the kitchen, at the door leading into the living room. It was nice, she decided. Laura had done her best with the furnishings, had dotted tealights and photo frames and abstract artwork from a secondhand store throughout. It _did_ feel like home.

But something was troubling, nonetheless; she could smell Laura in this house, her perfume, her shampoo, and it suddenly seemed alien to her, though it might have been the unquenchable flare of guilt that flashed in her gut that felt a bit strange.

Guilt that turned her stomach. Guilt that made her ill.

She made it to the bathroom in time, felt the cold tile impact her knees, and then hardly felt anything at all as she vomited into the toilet bowl. She coughed hard, choked, held her hair out of her face with trembling hands. She didn’t know how long she remained there, crushed, kneeling between the counter and the toilet. Part of her wanted to cry, but she convinced herself rather easily that that was not necessary. If anything, she should be happy; her life was back on that familiar track, she was back to doing what she did best after an unfortunate hiatus.

But she still felt like shit.

She dragged herself up to her feet, damp, sweating skin peeling away from the soothing tile, and turned on the tap. She ran freezing cold water over her hands, splashed her face, rinsed out the bitter taste of bile from her mouth. She didn’t want to look at herself in the mirror but did anyway, saw her own frightened face staring back at her. She looked awful and wanted to take a shower but didn’t feel like she had the energy to manage even that.

Her feet felt leaden as she walked across the hallway, ignoring the stairs, and headed for the couch. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, sleeping there, but she was too tired to care as she lay back, draping one arm across her hot forehead to block out the sunlight.

All she needed was some rest, and then everything would be fine. Everything would be back to normal.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently y'all weren't fans of the last chapter, so here, have some violence instead!
> 
>  
> 
> Tw: gun violence, character death etc

_Three months later_  
_September 27_

Carmilla hit the ground hard on her hands and knees, collapsing face-first onto the scuffed and filthy hardwood floor. Her mind was reeling, her vision blurry and unfocused. She scrambled back onto her knees but keeled over, resting her forehead on the floor. Blood dripped from her mouth with each hoarse gasp, the metallic tang coating her tongue and lips, and both hands were clasped over her stomach, aching from the half dozen punches she had just sustained to her solar plexus.

Someone was talking to her but she wasn’t really paying attention to them; all she could focus on was trying to breathe, and the grit on the dance floor that was digging into her face.

_Fuck, not again._

She sat up slowly, her hair in her eyes, chin slick with her own blood as she ran the back of her sleeve across her mouth to catch the drips. The back of her head knocked against something hard and metal, what she knew to be the barrel of a gun, and she froze. Her hands were clasped into shaking, bloody fists and her chest was heaving with panic and terror.

They were going to kill him, and then they were going to kill her.

One of the men, their leader, so far unmarked by the scuffle, turned to Carmilla. He walked towards her slowly, languidly, in his expensive leather shoes and his black suit, cut wide in the shoulders, his confidence remarkably similar to her own all those years ago. He fell into an easy crouch in front of her and she let her eyes fall to the floor, refused to look at him. He pulled his smoke grey tie free from his pressed jacket, tugged on the knot, pulled the loop over his impeccably styled hair, and used the silk to wipe at the blood dripping from Carmilla’s chin.

“So,” he said to her quietly, trying to get her attention. She glanced up at his face, avoided his eyes as he carefully dabbed at her torn lips. “What’s such a pretty young thing like yourself doing working for your loser of a brother, hmm?”

There was an audible thump from behind him and Will made a noise that Carmilla had never wanted to hear from the throat of a person that she loved, her brother included. She tried to look at Will but the man in front of her demanded her attention.

“Hmm?” he repeated. His eyes were half-closed, heavy with smug triumph.

“Don’t kill him,” she whispered. Fresh blood slipped from the corner of her mouth, and the man caught it once more with his ruined tie.

“Don’t worry about him, sweetheart,” he said to her. “He’s a loser anyway, a mere thug, an insect.” He shrugged casually. “Think of it as an opportunity to move on to bigger and better things.”

Carmilla looked him in the eye then, imagined she was sneering defiantly. In truth she was pitiful, eyes glistening with tears, jaw trembling almost imperceptibly. “Please, don’t kill him.”

The man shook his head slowly. “Business is business,” he said slowly, calmly. He stood up then, flinging his bloody tie aside as he turned and unbuttoned his jacket. He reached inside, brought out a pistol, and motioned at Will vaguely with it. “Stand him up properly,” he snapped.

Two men crouched, collected Will from where he lay face-down on the floor, and heaved him upright by his arms again, forcing him to stand on his feet. Carmilla stared at him, horrified at the sight of his broken, bloody face. Will, ill-tempered yet indescribably loyal William Karnstein, her baby brother, was unrecognisable.

_This was it._

Carmilla tried to stand up, ignoring the threat of the armed presence behind her.

Will was standing on his own now, though he was nearly senseless. Carmilla glared, eyes searching out Will’s, but his were bruised shut. The man facing him had taken off his jacket, had tossed it to another man. He raised the gun, chambered a round, and stopped when Carmilla cried out again.

She didn’t really manage to say anything comprehensible when someone hit her in the back of the neck, knocked her down again.

The well-dressed man wasn’t looking at her anymore. “Control yourself, Miss Karnstein,” he called out to her. Then, to Will: “This is what I warned you about, dear friend. I always said you weren’t strong enough to play with the big boys.”

Carmilla screamed helplessly. The gun discharged, a single round hammering into Will’s stomach. He didn’t make a sound as he buckled, then crumpled to the floor.

Carmilla was crying.

The executioner stepped over Will’s writhing body and put three rounds, in quick succession, into the back of his head.

Carmilla was on her feet again, stumbling, throwing herself towards Will’s killer. A gun went off behind her and she heard the bullet streak by, missing her by scant centimetres. Will’s killer spun around, shouted something at the shooter, and then something big and heavy hit Carmilla, knocked her to the ground, crushed her beneath its weight, and beat consciousness from her.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's been asking for more Laura. Though she's obviously not as central to this storyline (sorry!), this Laura-focused chapter was always going to feature so I've moved it forward for you all! Enjoy!

_Seven weeks earlier_   
_8 August_

Laura groaned loudly as she slammed her desk phone back into its cradle.

She’s been working the ‘pen since eight a.m., and with the clock steadily ticking its way closer to nine p.m. she’s slowly feeling the caffeine lose its effect in her bloodstream.

Today was not a good day; there were only two reporters taking calls in the bullpen all day, Laura herself and another young journalist whom had barely uttered five words in Laura’s direction all day; she was exhausted and prone to making mistakes and silly typos; and her phone had been ringing non-stop all day.

All she wanted to do was go home.

_Home_. Home didn’t feel like the right word to use anymore, not for the house purchased with Carmilla’s blood money.

For the past few months she had been planning on moving out of Carmilla’s house and finding her own way. She wasn’t ever planning on broaching the subject with Carmilla, given her totally irrational and unpredictable behaviour lately, and had convinced herself that just disappearing from the brunette’s life was a perfectly viable option. The fact that her girlfriend had actually attacked her had just about destroyed any reason she had to stay in that house, but still, she hesitated.

She wasn’t sure what it was that kept her there. Perhaps she thought Carmilla could change? Perhaps she felt like there was nowhere else she could go?

The more she thought on it, the more she realised that her life had hit a dead end and she wasn’t sure she wanted to go anywhere else. Living with Carmilla, albeit sporadically, served as attrition for whatever imagined sins she could imagine she had committed.

Worse still, she empathised with the girl, despite everything, despite her lies.

The other reporter suddenly cruised by Laura’s desk, coffee cup in hand, aiming for the coffee machine by the door.

“That cathedral shooting is cat litter now, Hollis.”

It takes Laura a couple of seconds to realise that the other reporter - Danny, was it? - had snooped at her desktop on her walk past.

Laura scoffs. “It’s the biggest thing to hit my beat in months. Theorists are going crazy over it.”

She’s half-telling the truth; she’s fuelling the theorists, and her own hunger for answers, with her coverage.

Danny hums in response, jabs a button on the coffee machine, watches as the thick black tar seeps out into her cup.

“Don’t dig too deep - I’d rather the mob not stage a sequel in our office because you’ve blabbed their secrets to the world.”

Laura smiles at her crookedly, blatantly sardonic, then turns back to her desktop.

She’s covered the shooting near to every day since it happened, recycling facts and ballistics reports, reiterating NYPD’s urgent call for witnesses, but Laura knows there’s something more. She knows Carmilla’s connected, somehow, though has no way of proving it without asking her, not that Carmilla would give her a straight answer. That William Luce, nightclub owner, was definitely connected, too. Ballistics reports confirmed a similarity, that a recent batch of shootings near Mr Luce’s own nightclub could be linked to the cathedral shooting. She was leaving NYPD to investigate that one, she wasn’t stupid, knew damn well that if her paper were to speculate William Luce’s involvement Carmilla would be the one to pull the trigger.

For now, though, she needed a story prepared for the next break in the case. And she needed to go home.

Laura slammed her laptop shut and grabbed her purse, fishing out her car keys as she rose from her desk. Danny didn’t look up from her desk, didn’t care, and Laura strode towards the door, pushing it open with her shoulder and stepping from the office.

She didn’t look back as she made her way to her car, her movements calm, steady, almost mechanical. She didn’t care as she pulled out of the parking lot. She didn’t care as she steered smoothly into traffic, didn’t react as she battled her way through the streets, didn’t think of going anywhere else but to Carmilla’s house.

She felt defeated.

The house was quiet, nearly dark, too, as she walked in. She dropped her keys in the vase in the hallway before she shrugged off her jacket. Her shoes went away neatly into the closet and she shut the door firmly but quietly. She didn’t turn on any lights along the way as she walked calmly to the kitchen, and felt her heart stop painfully when she saw someone sitting there at the table.

She froze for a panicked second, visions of being ambushed by armed men in her own home for speculating about the shootings, before she realised it was Carmilla. Laura let her raised hand drop to her side and just stood there.

Carmilla was watching her with a strange look on her face, her expression apprehensive, almost fearful. She looked young, then. She looked beautiful.

“You scared me half to death,” Laura muttered. Her voice was deliberately flat.

“I didn’t expect you home so early.” Then, as an afterthought: “I’m sorry.”

Laura shrugged and flicked on the kitchen lights as she headed towards the fridge. Carmilla flinched visibly in the corner of Laura’s eye, shielded her eyes from the sudden intrusive light with her broken hand. She still felt a twinge of regret every time she saw those broken bones. She chose to ignore it, busying herself with getting a bottle of water from the fridge, taking her time in selecting one bottle over then three that were in there, spent a long time glancing over the meagre offerings kept on the shelves. She had to go shopping, and soon; that is, unless she wanted to eat mustard and mayonnaise for breakfast.

Laura turned away from the fridge, opened the bottle of water and drank from it slowly, almost pretending that Carmilla wasn’t there but feeling every moment of silence with increasing dread and a sense of finality.

“Can I sleep here?” Carmilla asked her suddenly.

Laura looked at her for a moment, and then raised an eyebrow. “This is your house.”

“Yes, well…” Carmilla trailed off and lowered her eyes to the table. Laura was glad to see that her left hand was on her lap again, broken bones hidden from sight.

Laura shrugged again, needlessly. “I won’t be staying here for much longer, anyway,” she said rather harshly.

Carmilla looked up suddenly, her expression nearly panicked. “What? Why?”

Laura didn’t bother answering. She didn’t really need to, given the guilt written all over the other girl’s face. “As soon as I get some stuff together and figure out where I can go,” she added quietly.

Carmilla was frozen. “You can’t.”

“Hmm?” Laura’s reply was brief, disdainful, daring the other girl to contradict her.

“You can’t,” Carmilla repeated, her voice breaking. “No. Please.”

“And why should I stay, Carm? Give me one good reason.”

“Because-” Carmilla broke off, almost zealously. She stopped herself, thought about what she would say, examined her hands in her lap. She didn’t seem to be able to come up with anything. “Because I need you. I need you to stay.”

Laura sighed heavily, started to walk out of the room.

She was suddenly very tired. “Laura, please,” Carmilla stood up suddenly, started to walk towards her. Laura backed away, pressed her own back against the wall. Carmilla’s voice was begging, pleading, desperate. It disturbed Laura, how broken it made the other girl sound. And it disturbed her how much the sound of Carmilla’s stricken voice affected her.

“I don’t - I don’t know what I have left anymore.” Carmilla had stopped her advance three steps away from Laura, a safe distance. Her splinted fingers were up at her mouth and her other hand was wrapped tightly around her own very slim waist. She looked small. “I can’t lose you, Laura. I can’t let you leave. I think - I think that you, _you_ , are my only hope.”

Laura was struck by the odd, faltering sincerity of the other girl’s words, but her mind was telling her to shut her heart to the other girl, was reminding her of her violence and unreliability. Carmilla was a cancer of her heart, one that had infected her to the core. No matter how much she might tell herself that she hated her, that she didn’t need her and should just cut her loose, another part of her always whispered dread that she wouldn’t survive the separation.

But Laura could say nothing.

Carmilla closed the gap between them, stared Laura right in the eyes. "Please, don’t leave me.”

“No,” Laura said, ambiguous.

Carmilla’s green eyes were alive with anguish. She looks so small, then, deceptively helpless. Laura suddenly noticed with a start that Carmilla’s face was yellowed with healing bruises.

“I need you to stay,” she whispered.

“No,” Laura repeated coldly.

“Please?” Carmilla’s mouth contorted slightly; she set her jaw, eyes brimming with tears.

“I can’t,” Laura said, her voice slightly softer. “Not for you.”

Carmilla stepped even closer to Laura, a sudden jerking movement, effectively trapping the other girl by burying her face in the crook of her neck. Laura didn’t move; Carmilla didn’t dare touch her otherwise. She was crying silently.

Laura raised her eyes to the ceiling, willed the tears not to come. “As soon as I figure out where I can go,” she whispered.

Carmilla backed up a step. Laura wouldn’t look at her as she turned away, walked down the hall, and silently ascended the stairs.


	16. Chapter 16

_Three days later_   
_11 August_

Carmilla lay sprawled on top of Laura, face pressed in the crook of Laura’s neck, listening to her heartbeat. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was slow and steady, the bedsheets tangled around their legs and failing to cover Carmilla’s naked back. One arm was draped around Laura’s waist, crushed beneath their combined weight, whilst the other was stretched out.

Laura’s expression was distantly thoughtful. She had a lot on her mind that she was trying to forget about for the time being, but it all kept coming back to her. She was nervous, stressed out, prone to getting angry. She had gotten angry at Carmilla earlier, had bitten her tongue to refrain from lashing out, and though she had restrained herself from speaking what was on her mind, she still felt guilty. Carmilla felt small and frail and insecure wrapped around her body, crumbling before Laura’s very eyes; she couldn’t shift the other girl’s torn face when Laura announced her plans to leave from her memory.

Carmilla shifted suddenly, managed, however slowly, to drag her numb hand out from between them. Laura glanced down past the top of her head, watched her slowly flexing her slowly-mending fingers.

“Laur,” she suddenly said, her voice thick and lilting. The pet name slips from her lips like an old friend and Laura can’t remember the last time Carmilla had used it.

“Yes?”

Carmilla hesitated, drawing her right arm back up against Laura’s body. “Are we okay?”

Laura didn’t answer. Carmilla didn’t move. She could feel her eyelashes tickling her neck. She felt like she should do something, so she very gently squeezed her broken hand.

Laura remained silent, knew that Carmilla was trying to make her stay. After a few minutes, Carmilla found her voice again. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

Laura hummed for Carmilla to go on.

“For everything. I’m just sorry.”

Carmilla craned her head back and looked at Laura from under her chin, searching for a response. Laura glanced down quickly, saw her eyes, so clear, and then looked back up at the ceiling. Carmilla pulled her hand free from Laura’s, took her weight onto her left elbow, and crawled a few inches up her body. She kissed her jaw gently, lingeringly, lips soft and needy against her skin. “There’s no where else I’d rather be than with you,” she murmured, between kisses.

Laura scoffed quietly.

Carmilla smiled into the hollow between the other girl’s collarbone and neck. “Violence is all I know. But you’re all I want.”

Laura briefly doubted her sincerity, but didn’t call her on it. She was momentarily placated. She wrapped both her arms loosely around Carmilla, closed her eyes, and lay completely still. She still needed to leave, knew that this touchy-feely, cuddly Carmilla would never last, that Carmilla could never turn away from the calls of her mother’s mob, but right now she could feel her breath on her neck, enjoyed the comfort of her weight, the warmth of her touch.

“When I first saw you in that dorm room in Silas, I had the biggest crush on you,” Carmilla whispered rather suddenly, conspirationally.

Laura choked back a laugh. “I know,” she whispered back. “You didn’t do a very good job of hiding it.”

She couldn’t see her blush. “When you got drunk and tried to seduce me in that ridiculous white dress, I knew I was in love with you.”

Laura couldn’t help but smile. Memories of their shared days in that cramped room at university, where Carmilla didn’t disappear for weeks on end only to return spattered with blood and where Laura didn’t live in constant fear of the mob, felt whole worlds away. She blinked back a tear; she still needed to leave.

“And now?” she couldn’t help herself.

“And now I have you.” Carmilla whispered sadly, softly, and it made her sound very young and Laura’s heart leapt angrily in her chest. _“God’s in his heaven”_ she quoted.

_“All’s right with the world,”_ Laura finished, forcedly, chest aching. She still needed to leave. She had to.

“I didn’t know you liked English poetry,” Carmilla slurred, eyelids heavy with fatigue.

“I don’t,” Laura said.

“Mm.”

Silence fell over them again. Carmilla closed her eyes, exhaled heavily.

“No matter what you say, I can’t stay with you,” Laura told her.

Carmilla opened her eyes, drew her head away from Laura’s neck. Laura turned to look at her, their faces mere centimetres apart, Carmilla’s forehead creased with concern. Carmilla reached up and ran her broken fingers along the length of Laura’s jaw, from ear to chin and back again before she wrapped her hand tenderly around the back of her neck.

“It’s okay. I know,” Carmilla whispered. And there were tears in her eyes. “No matter what I say, I still feel broken.”

She brushed her nose against Laura’s, closed the distance between their lips and kissed her almost tentatively.

“I’m sorry, Carm,” Laura whispered into her lips.

“I love you,” was her nearly silent reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carmilla and Laura are quoting 'The Year's at the Spring' by Robert Browning, from the 1841 play Pippa Passes:
> 
> "The year's at the spring, / And day's at the morn; / Morning's at seven; / The hill-side's dew-pearled; / The lark's on the wing; / The snail's on the thorn; / God's in his heaven -- / All's right with the world."
> 
> The piece is somewhat fitting to this story, I feel, as the author's original idea was of a young innocent girl, Pippa, moving unblemished through the crime-ridden neighbourhoods of Asolo; brushing shoulders with pimps, prostitutes, informers, hired assassins, and parasites of every variety in a world of the tyranny of the church and state, of corrupt officialdom, of envy and malice and wanton cruelty, of adultery and blackmail and murder. Her immunity to worldly degradation lies in her very unworldliness.
> 
> And whilst I'm on a roll, in case anyone is interested, the title I chose for this fic - 'Higgs Boson Blues' (taken from the Nick Cave song) describes the futility of existence, despite the efforts of our best scientists in negating the existence of God. It suggests that the future holds little direction or meaning (the only thing we can be sure of is our impending mortality), and it's this existential dread that I've tried to capture in Carmilla throughout.
> 
> Enough depressing rant from me, hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	17. Chapter 17

_Two months later_  
_12 October_

Carmilla’s feet slid out from under her as she rounded a tombstone, her boots slipping on the damp grass, glistening with dew. Her entire right side was soaked nearly instantly when she hit the ground, but she didn’t have time to care. She could hear the crack of gunshots behind, echoing in the early morning silence, and scrambled behind the rectangular base of a statue for cover, pressed her back against it.

A man yelped sharply from behind her and there was the sound of a body hitting the ground. Carmilla was afraid to look, not knowing what she would find, but she risked glancing round the edge of the granite slab anyway.

And there was Kirsch, sprawled out on the grass, scarcely moving, groaning softly. Carmilla couldn’t see where he had been hit, but he was still alive.

She pulled her head back behind cover, her breathing loud and erratic. She closed her eyes tightly and cracked the back of her head against the ancient stone once, twice. He was too big, he was too fucking slow, and Carmilla didn’t even have a gun; she had never gotten it back after they took it from her over two weeks ago. She should have gotten a replacement, she had no idea why she hadn’t, and she was kicking herself now.

They weren’t shooting anymore, and so she couldn’t tell by sound where they were, or even if they were in the graveyard with them. She was staring up at the sky, her teeth clenched, lips moving with profanity spoken in silent prayer, crouched beneath the blessing arm of Saint John. She could hear Kirsch, his broken groans, the sound of his jacket as he slowly dragged himself, arm over arm, towards her. She froze, worked up enough nerve to hazard another glance at him, and spun around the corner again.

A single round skimmed the base of the statue, ricocheting inches from Carmilla’s head, and she jerked back quickly, her heart beating painfully. She couldn’t catch her breath, felt her panic crushing her, twisting her insides into knots. The cool morning air burned her chest with every gasping intake of breath. She had been running for a long time, and her legs felt leaden. Her hands were shaking. She couldn’t keep still.

She knew she had to do something fast, or else they would simply walk up behind her and shoot her. She glanced up once more at the broad stone face above her, that caricature of genuine human sympathy and kindness, found little courage, and spun out from behind her cover.

Kirsch had positioned himself behind another statue, sat limp, hands pressed to the bloody wound on his leg, gun abandoned on the path between them. Carmilla dove for it wildly, trying to keep as low to the ground as possible, before scrambling for cover, completely exposed. There was a shout; she turned in a panic, and they were right on top of her, taking aim with their own guns.

She swung Kirsch’s Beretta towards them, pulled the trigger and got off a single faltering shot, the weapon bucking wildly in her unsteady hand. It was a lucky shot; she heard the awful pop of the 9mm round striking flesh and bone, a man’s scream. She couldn’t stop running.

Shots rang out behind her, punctuated by screams. She could actually hear bullets zipping past her head as she ducked behind a tombstone, one so short she practically had to lie down behind it. Bullets struck stone, sounded like it was right behind her head.

She could hear them getting closer.

She spun around on the grass, fired two quick shots over the top of the tombstone and then scrambled onto her feet and sprinted wildly. As she stood she saw a single man ducking behind cover and another man, Will’s killer, laid out on the grass, clutching at his leg at the knee and screaming through gritted teeth. Her heart stopped when she saw the man, and she wanted to kill him, wanted to risk everything to kill him, but she was still running, dodging wildly and leaping over low stones, the grass threatening to slip her at every turn as she tried to lead them away from where Kirsch was hidden.

There weren’t any shots behind her as she angled herself for the half-open cemetery gates, nor as she sped past them and out onto the street beyond it. She could hear distant sirens somewhere in the city as she sprinted. She wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop.

She kept looking back in her panic, struggling to find the last gunman, but he had disappeared. It frightened her even more, not knowing where he was, so she made to lose herself amongst the old stone buildings, pollution-scarred and looming. She slid through the shadows, feeling about ready to collapse. She couldn’t run any more and was bent nearly double with exhaustion. She tripped over her own feet, knees crashing onto the pavement, and threw herself sideways. Her left shoulder struck the side of a building and she lay there, half slumped against the wall, her vision swimming black, her breathing far too loud, far too hoarse.

She had never been so terrified in her life.

She thought of Kirsch, hoped he was safe.

She thought of Laura, wanted to feel safe again, wondered if she would ever feel safe again.

And then she dragged herself back up to her feet and limped away, casting panicked glances behind her as she thumbed the safety on and hid the pistol beneath her jacket.

She had to go somewhere; she just wasn’t sure where.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been paying attention to the dates of each chapter you'll have noticed that we've finally caught up with the events of that ever-so-mysterious first chapter. There's only two chapters left to go of Higgs Boson Blues (that includes an epilogue) so all will be revealed very soon!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This picks up directly where Chapter 1 left off!

_14 hours later_  
_12 October_

Laura crashed into Carmilla’s chest just as the gun went off, deafening her. She was afraid to move, afraid to look up, afraid to move her hand from Carmilla’s wrist. She was holding the girl’s arm so tightly that Laura’s own fingers were numb. She stared at Carmilla’s unmoving elbow for what felt like a very long time, breath held, body thrumming with the aftershock of the gunshot.

Carmilla started coughing, hoarse and wet.

Laura pulled away from Carmilla, glanced up at her face briefly. Carmilla’s eyes were tightly closed, and her cheeks were wet. Her finger was still depressing the trigger, the barrel aimed a mere three centimetres over the top of her head, a bullet lodged deep within the drywall behind her. In a rage, Laura wrenched the weapon out of the other girl’s hand, flung it across the floor as if it burned her, and then rounded on Carmilla, her voice high with disbelief, hoarse with rage.

“What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?!” She screamed at her.

Carmilla didn’t say anything, just kept coughing slowly, only further enraging Laura. She felt no pity, only fright, frustration, and hatred. She grabbed Carmilla by the collar of her shirt - once Laura's shirt, actually - and shook her for a response. It only made Carmilla cough harder.

“Say something!”

Carmilla wouldn’t even open her eyes.

Laura savagely backhanded her across the mouth, hand stinging with the force, knocking Carmilla’s head back into the wall. Crumbled plaster showered down on her head and shoulders from the bullet hole above. Carmilla looked like she didn’t even feel it.

“They killed him,” she slurred numbly.

“What?” Laura’s mouth was drawn into a slight sneer. “Who the fuck-”

“Will,” Carmilla interrupted her. “They killed him.”

Laura hesitated for a moment, her eyes darting back and forth between Carmilla’s.

“Will?” she trailed off, trying to think of who Carmilla might be referring to. She suddenly remembered that night at the restaurant, the business card the waiter had brought to their table, the nightclub owner, William Luce.

Will. Her _brother_. Different surname, Karnstein roused too many questions, but it suddenly made sense.

“William Luce is your _brother_?” Laura hissed.

Carmilla started sobbing helplessly. Laura could smell the blood on her. She got up to her feet silently, staring down disdainfully at the other girl. She turned then, spotted Carmilla’s Zippo and cigarettes on the table, picked them up and walked out of the kitchen.

She saw the splash of red and blue light across the front windows as she stepped out into the hall. It was vaguely surreal, but Laura was totally apathetic. Completely resigned.

She opened the front door just as three police officers were approaching the steps warily. She startled them, one of them drawing his hand back to his holstered gun before hesitating. Laura stood to one side, held the door open, her face an unfeeling mask as she told them where Carmilla was, that there was a gun but she was not armed. Two officers stepped into the house, their guns in their hands, while the third waited with Laura, asking her questions that she answered woodenly. She sat down on the edge of the front steps, opened Carmilla’s cigarette carton. There was a single cigarette left. She took it out, placed it between her lips, and lit it. She tossed the empty pack carelessly onto the front lawn.

The cop glanced down at the litter but said nothing. He was staring into the dark house, one hand at his holster, waiting.

Laura had already smoked half of the cigarette by the time the two policemen stepped out, Carmilla held by the elbows between them, her lacerated and scabbed hands handcuffed in front of her. She saw Laura and tried to stop, but they dragged her forwards a few steps, her bare feet scraping painfully along the walk, until they paused, letting her stand upright.

“Laura,” Carmilla pleaded, tried to get her attention.

Laura glanced up slowly, the cigarette between her fingers, one arm draped across her knees, the other bent at the elbow and up by her face.

“Laura, please…” Carmilla’s voice was heartbreaking, but Laura felt nothing. She simply stared at her, her expression blank.

“Laura, I need you,” Carmilla said, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

Laura sighed heavily, exhaling smoke, before she lowered her arm and put out the cigarette beside her feet. She stood, glanced at Carmilla once more, then turned her back on her and stepped into the house.

Carmilla screamed something after her that sounded vaguely like Laura’s name, the syllables lost amongst the muffled croak of her voice.

Laura stepped into the darkness of the house and quietly shut the door behind her. Without thinking she pocketed Carmilla’s lighter, staring out into the now-silent house.

It didn’t feel like home anymore.

It was time to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not quite over yet - there's still a short epilogue to follow, but let me know how you found it! *sits waiting with bated breath for the angry comments to roll in*


	19. Chapter 19

_Epilogue_  
_8 January_

“Excuse me,” a male voice called out politely. “Do you have a light?”

Laura stopped on the sidewalk and turned around slowly. A young man, boyishly handsome and oddly familiar, was smiling at her, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. He didn’t look old enough to smoke. There was an empty matchbook, the promotional kind left out on tables at bars, at his feet; a gust of wind, laden with snow, whipped up from the street, sent the tiny piece of cardboard tumbling past Laura’s boots.

She ignored the familiar club logo embossed on the strip of cardboard, swallowed back the wave of nausea that came with its recognition.

She had places to go, things to do; if she didn’t hurry she would miss her morning briefing at _The New York Times_ , something she’s keen not to do in her first week at her dream job, but his smile was so welcoming that she didn’t mind spending a few seconds appreciating it. Laura had always had a great appreciation for kindness, even from strangers. Besides, _The Box_ was a popular nightclub, and New York a city of many faces; she’d probably passed him before on her route to work, and he had probably picked the matchbook up on a night out with friends.

“Yes, actually,” she opened her purse and started digging through it as the man stepped closer slowly, maintained a respectful distance. “Somewhere in here, I think…”

Her cold fingers closed around a Zippo at the very bottom, and she pulled it out and handed it over.

He nodded in silent thanks, flipped it open with his thumb and lit his cigarette. Before he handed the lighter back, he gave her a cheeky grin, flipped the lit lighter deftly between his fingers and snapped it shut with his palm.

Laura would have been impressed by his corny trick had her heart not gone cold.

Carmilla used to do stupid lighter tricks, the product of her idleness.

Laura was staring at the Zippo, Carmilla’s Zippo, for a long time, the ornate engraved _‘K’_ visible through the man’s fingers. The man, confused, pushed it towards her again, snapped her out of her reverie.

“Sorry,” she said, flustered. Then, “no, keep it.”

The young man shook his head slowly. “No, I can’t. This is a nice lighter.”

Laura shoved her hands into her jacket pockets stubbornly. “I just quit smoking,” she lied. “You’d be doing me a favour by keeping it.”

The man grinned at her broadly, his smile puppy-like. “Thanks,” he said. “Thanks a lot!”

Laura smiled at him, albeit weakly, before she turned away and walked down the street, hunched into her jacket against the cold. She’d been meaning to get rid of that lighter, anyway. Bad memories.

Just several days earlier she had opened up a newspaper, _The ‘Times_ , naturally, and found, several pages in, a short blurb about one Miss Karnstein, implicated in and arrested for violence and murder, undertaken whilst she was under the employ of her brother, one William Luce, né Karnstein. Her case had been thrown out, though, on some technicality that the article failed to divulge. Miss Karnstein was out on the streets again, somewhere.

She had read the article with a sort of lucid detachment, a small blush breaking onto her face at  _Laura Hollis, Staff Writer_  printed neatly underneath the headline, before cutting it out to join the others, all following the Karnstein case, featuring her own name in the byline, on her wall. Ludicrously, Carmilla’s arrest had led to Laura’s big journalistic break; job offers pouring in after her emotional account appeared on the front page of almost every major newspaper.

She glanced back at the man; he was still looking down at the lighter, thumb grazing the engraved initial. He looked up at her, a frown on his face.

Kirsch, his name was. She recognised him now. His face was on her wall of newspaper cuttings.

He was speaking quickly into his phone now, eyes locked on Laura, lighter clasped tightly in his hand.

She had known that they’d be onto her soon enough, that detailing one Carmilla Karnstein’s criminal life in print was a sure-fire way to get herself noticed by the wrong people.

She shoved her hands deeper into her jacket pockets and hurried down the street.

In some distantly, cosmically, comprehensible way, it had all been worth it.

_End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we have it, folks!
> 
> It's been an emotional rollercoaster, and a super-huge thank you to everyone who has stuck with this throughout!
> 
> I can only apologise that its not the happy ending that some of you were hoping for, though by now you've probably noticed that angst and drama are more my kinda thing. It was challenging, but I wanted to write something that was gritty and angry, and sadly that meant compromising on a happy ending.
> 
> There is potential (not definite, I must add, but it's there) for a sequel, if I can get my ideas in order. If anyone has any suggestions I'd be more than open to hearing them.
> 
> Love,
> 
> E  
> ohdaytona.tumbr.com


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